


Grey Skies

by PazithiGallifreya



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-10 08:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13498470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: Thandien Surana is the Warden Commander of Vigil's Keep. She ended the Fifth Blight, she saved Amaranthine, has begun rebuilding Ferelden's Grey Wardens, and, quite frankly, nobody seems to care much about that at the moment, herself least of all.At least she's got company... of a sort.





	1. Why'd You Come Back, Oghren?

**Author's Note:**

> I don't imagine this story will get a great deal of attention, given that Oghren is... not terribly popular. So if you're one of the many who absolutely don't care for the character, this story may not be for you. Surana is also Quite Bitter over being dumped by Alistair on the eve of battle with the archdemon. This story is not all kittens and sunshine, I'm afraid.
> 
> Content warning for alcoholism/withdrawal, the "M" rating is for this so Take Heed.

  
[Illustration drawn on commission by MeliciousIntent](https://meliciousintent.tumblr.com)

* * *

 

Thandien Surana knocked gently on the ancient, pitted wood. Sigrun was an early riser, typically, but had not shown herself at the breakfast table. Surana gripped the latest creation of Wade’s forge work in her left hand, a heavy weight wrapped in a scrap of old linen. She never knew how the slight dwarf could heft these heavy axes, much less swing them in a fight, but Sigrun barely seemed to notice the weight in battle. This new axe had a particularly keen edge and an elegant design that Surana thought would please her comrade. Wade had been quite proud of this latest piece of work.

Surana paused, listening for sounds of life behind the door, but none were forthcoming. “Sigrun? Are you awake?” She knocked again, more heavily this time. When there was no answer, she began to worry, wondering if Sigrun were perhaps ill. She steeled herself for the inevitable protest at the uninvited intrusion and opened the door. “Sigrun?”

She was not greeted with an annoyed ex-Legionnaire, however. The bed was empty and made up neatly. An open trunk lay at its foot, also empty, and the small shelf beside the window was bare as well. It was as if the room had never been occupied.

So, another one was gone, without so much as a goodbye. _Bloody typical_. The Warden-Commander of Vigil's Keep, mage and renowned Hero of Ferelden, turned on her heel and slammed the door on her way out.

  


* * *

  


Surana slouched in her chair at the table in the main hall of Vigil’s Keep. Her life seemed to have a certain recurring theme, and it wasn’t a pleasant melody. They all leave, in the end. They _all_ leave.

She resisted the urge to spit at the thought of Alistair. King Alistair, now, and his blessed union with Queen Anora, something she herself had a hand in bringing about, which just made it all the more galling in a way. Every other king in Thedas kept a mistress, some of them kept a whole roster of them. Bloody Saint Alistair, though, was just too precious and pure and good for such foibles. At their last meeting, his speech had been stilted and formal, a King speaking to a Commander, not a man speaking to a former lover, or even a friend. He acted as if he did not know her, as if they had no personal history at all. She wanted nothing more than to slap his stupid face.

Sigrun was gone now, too. Velanna had disappeared a month ago, but Surana hadn’t really expected the Dalish Warden to stick around forever. Velanna still held out hope that her sister might yet live, and Surana could not begrudge her the chance to discover the truth. Anders was also gone, and she’d last heard rumors of his heading in the direction of the Free Marches with Justice by side.

Nathaniel Howe had left a week ago, and his explanation that being a Warden didn’t suit him had annoyed Surana. _You can’t just stop being a Grey Warden_ , she’d argued. _The taint is irreversible_. He hadn’t cared.

It was like the end of the Blight all over again. She still received occasional correspondence from Leliana, who had returned to the Chantry and now served the Divine, but the rest? Who even knew where they all were now. Even her bloody dog had not come back to her. So much for the loyalty of Mabari, at least when they had a whole kennel of mates to entertain themselves with.

Raucous laughter and heavy booted footsteps heralded the end of her ruminating. Well, there was one who had remained at her side. In body at least, if not always in mind.

Oghren swayed as he wound his way across the room to her. It was a good thing his legs were so short, or he’d have fallen off them already. Surana shook her head at him; it was not even noon, and he was already well into his cups.

“Hey therrrre, how’s you doin’…”

He slumped into the chair beside her, just barely making it into the seat. He reached for the flask at his belt and Surana’s temper snapped. She snatched the offending object from his hand and twisted out of her own chair, dancing away from his shouted protest and flailing attempt to retrieve his home-brewed poison.

She flipped the cap off, took one mouthful of the foul substance and spat it out, then poured the rest onto the flagstones at her feet while Oghren shouted and stumbled. “I’ve lost everyone else, Oghren. You can’t kill yourself with this shit anymore. I won’t allow it.”

He stopped in his tracks and stared at her, her words not quite cutting through the haze of drunkenness. He looked like a lost child, she thought, or perhaps a confused dog. _I never should have given him all those bottles_ , she thought. It had seemed a jest, hand the silly drunk another bottle, laugh as he stumbles; he enjoys it anyway, does he not? It was a kind of cruelty, in hindsight, and she hated herself in that moment as much as she hated nearly everyone else.

She didn’t hate Oghren, though. The other Grey Wardens at the keep generally either avoided him, or laughed at him.

“It’s not fair,” she said quietly, and Oghren squinted at her as he wobbled where he stood. She recognized his condition and rushed to his side as he tilted over entirely, grabbing at his tunic to keep him from hitting the floor head first. He was dead to the world before he landed, though, not quite unconscious but mumbling incoherently.

Surana glared at the few others in the hall who were openly staring or even smirking at him as she shifted behind him, hooking her hands under his armpits to drag him over to a rug near the fireplace. She didn’t quite have the strength to carry him back to his room a floor up and she was too fatigued (and angry) to risk using magic.

As she set him down, she noticed a scrap of folded parchment tucked into his belt. She knew it was probably private, but was feeling spiteful enough to pull it out anyway.

 

> _Oghren -_

> _I’m sending this money back. I don’t want your pay. We don’t need it. I can take care of mydaughter without your handouts. I told you it was over and I mean it. I gave you second, third, fourth, fifth chances and you wasted all of them. You love the bottle more than you love either of us, you made that much clear. You chose the Wardens over us, too, and as far as I’m concerned they can keep you. If you keep sending letters to her, I will throw them out. She’s too young to understand why Daddy doesn’t come home and I’m not going to burden her with that. If any part of you truly cares about her, you will stay away from her._

> _Felsi_

Surana folded the letter and returned it to Oghren’s belt. Odd noises emanated from the dwarf’s belly and Surana shoved him over onto his side in case his liquid “breakfast” made a reappearance. She sat down on the floor beside him, leaning against the cold stones of the keep. _Maker, what a pair we are_ , she thought to herself. _We ended a Blight, killed an Archdemon, fought a nightmare and lived to tell about all of it, then got thrown out with yesterday’s garbage_.

  


* * *

  


He’d spent half an hour screaming and complaining, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. He’d called her a bitch, accused her of being like his ex-wife, and stormed out.

Well, there goes another one. She couldn’t bring herself to regret it though. She’d dumped out every single cask and bottle in Vigil’s Keep. Some of those bottles of wine had been valuable vintages, old Howe family wine cellar stock that had somehow missed Oghren’s earlier attention, but she would not count on them remaining overlooked.

She put no faith in him returning now, though. No, not this time. Felsi had been right on one account - he chose the bottle, time and time again, over all other bonds. He couldn’t help himself, it seemed. It was a Calling of sorts, perhaps no less potent than the one that would take every Warden in the end. For Oghren, anyway.

That didn’t mean she had to be a party to his eventual destruction. He’d been losing weight lately and frankly he looked like shit, and often smelled like it too. Many of her companions had long remarked upon his odoriferous presence. She’d grown used to it during the Blight, or at least numb to it. There were worse sins than being a bit stinky, but the stink had changed from merely being the scent of an unwashed warrior to someone who was clearly ill, and it worried her.

He was gone, though. They all left, in the end. Why had she ever expected anything else?

  


* * *

  


Someone was banging on her door. She pulled herself up and stumbled out of bed, struggling to get a candle lit. She had no idea what time it was, but it had been after midnight when she’d laid down.

“This had better be important.”

She yanked the door open and Oghren stumbled as he raised his hand to continue pounding.

“I, uh…. um…” He shifted on his feet and snuffled, not quite looking at her.

She was angry at him, for waking her. She was still annoyed at him for calling her a bitch and storming off like a spoiled adolescent. She grabbed him by the shirt collar and hauled him inside, shoving him onto the bed without a word.

He laughed lasciviously, grinning at her as she turned to slam the door. “Eh, I’m flattered, darlin', I know you ladies can’t get enough of ol’ Oggy, but–”

Surana glared at him, shoving him further over. “I’m not trying to seduce you, you idiot. But it’s too damned late for this and I don’t want you out of my sight yet. We’ll talk about in the morning. So shut up and go the fuck to sleep.”

Oghren sat with his mouth open blinking at her, then obediently removed his boots and tossed them into the corner of the room. “You sure about this? Bit… weird. I can go back to my own room–”

“I said, shut up and go to sleep, alright? Damn it, just…” Surana leaned over and blew out the candle. She shoved at Oghren a bit more until he was over against the wall, leaving enough room for her.

“Hm, well then. You uh… you alright? Did ya hit yer head or somethin?”

She closed her eyes and did not bother to reply.

  


* * *

  


Surana woke a few hours later, having slept fitfully beside the snoring dwarf. She was not disturbed by the noise, having grown used to it during the time they shared a camp, but she’d had vague and unsettling dreams and had woken several times. She did not have the sort of nightmares she’d had during the Blight, she no longer had visions of an archdemon, although she still occasionally dreamt of hordes of darkspawn.

After their fight with the broodmother and their strange temporary alliance with the one who called himself The Architect, she sometimes dreamt of darkspawn who taunted her, and this time they’d featured the voices of past companions, of those who had left. It made her skin crawl.

She glanced across the pillow at Oghren, who was still dead to the world and sawing logs. She’d have to strip the bed and leave the sheets for the servants to wash. She chose not to bother him over the matter, but that didn’t change the fact that he bathed far too infrequently for his own good (never mind everyone else’s).

It wasn’t just laziness or sloppiness, as Wynne and some of the others had assumed. She understood, perhaps, better than some did, why he preferred to cloak himself in a cloud of stench. It kept most people at arms’ distance, or further. Why bother getting attached to people who will only leave you in the end? Far better to let them revile you from the start, perhaps, then you don’t have to feel the sting of it when they betray you later.

Surana leaned up on one elbow and looked at him more closely in the early dawn light. He’d returned sober, miraculously, but he still looked unwell. He was even paler than usual and his hair was slick with sweat. She closed her eyes and dozed for a while longer, then rose and dressed, leaving him behind in her bed to rest.

  


* * *

  


A few days later and Surana was beginning to regret her haste in disposing of everything even remotely alcoholic in the Keep. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think he had a bad bout of influenza. The fact that he wasn’t complaining just made her worry more.

“I can send someone to Amaranthine–”

“I said no, and I ain’t changed my mind, woman.”

She leaned back in the chair beside his bed and fidgeted with her staff. Spindleweed and elfroot helped, when he was able to keep it down long enough. He was leery of magic but she might have surreptitiously used just a little and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I’m sorry, Oghren, I didn’t think it would be so–”

Her apologies were interrupted when he bolted upright and leaned over to grab the bucket beside his bed, yet again. It had been perhaps half an hour since she’d given him the last tincture and his color looked a little better, but he was still queasy and sweating, clearly. After emptying the paltry contents of his stomach and dry heaving for a while, he put the bucket back on the floor with a loud thud and slumped back against the pillows. She wished Anders had not left; he was a better healer than she’d ever be. She was much better at blowing things up than putting them back together, including the only friend she had left, apparently. She’d done him wrong giving him the stuff before, and now it seemed she’d done him wrong by taking it away. She took a towel and dampened it in the washbasin, leaning over him to wipe his face and clean up his beard.

He snatched it out of her hand after a moment to do it himself instead and she sat back down, staring across the room and out of the narrow window at the sky beyond. _It looks like it might rain_ , she thought idly. Not that she’d be going outside this day.

“Oghren, why did you come back?” He didn’t answer and she looked over to see him fidgeting with the blanket and decidedly not looking at her. “...never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

He coughed and wriggled where he lay, trying to find a comfortable position where none was possible. “You know I don’t do so good talking about this sort of….”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. But I’m glad you came back.”

His pallid face flushed as red as his hair, and he turned away from her.

  


* * *

  


“His Majesty requests your presence…”

Surana tuned out the rest of the messenger’s speech. She didn’t care what Alistair wanted. Oghren was doing better, but he was still in no fit state to travel, and she would not leave him here on his own.

There were other Wardens here, now, their ranks had not exactly swelled, but she’d managed to recruit a few dozen over the last months. Some were sons of Amaranthine families who felt the need to express their gratitude by offloading surplus offspring and plenty were recruited in that old Grey Warden tradition of being plucked off the gallows or out of prison. She trusted none of them with Oghren.

She heard the chatter, of course. They all knew Oghren was the oldest Warden present beside herself, and that he had fought at her side during the Blight, but that wasn’t enough, apparently, to afford him even a basic sort of respect. They said nothing when they knew she was present, but that didn’t mean she didn’t overhear. They laughed at him, much as Branka and her House had laughed at him, as the nobles and warriors in Orzammar had laughed at him.

Had he ever really deserved any of it? All he’d ever wanted, it seemed to her, was to belong somewhere, to have a purpose, and that’s what most people wanted, wasn’t it? They laughed at him because he was unhappy, they laughed at him because he drank to forget that he was unhappy.

The King’s messenger was staring at her, apparently waiting for some sort of response or reply. “Tell Alistair that I can’t leave Vigil’s Keep at this time, whatever the hell it is he wants will just have to wait. Or he can come here himself.” _Like the coward would ever face me honestly, on his own._

The messenger hesitated, clearly afraid to return with news of her refusal to be summoned like an obedient dog. No doubt whatever the matter was, it was Anora who was behind it. She couldn’t imagine Alistair having the guts to order her around. Technically she was still a subject of Ferelden; the Grey Wardens were an independent organization and had certain rights and authorities of their own, but they were still on Ferelden soil in the end. She’d deal with the consequences, whatever they were.

She cocked one eyebrow at the messenger, daring him to challenge her. She had no patience these days for politics or matters of court. She was sick to the gills of the nation she’d fought and suffered for, which had for a brief moment celebrated her victories (both of them), then had promptly forgotten.

The messenger gave up and left. It would be a few weeks before the reply came, if any. She watched him leave, then went back to her place at the table beside Oghren, grabbing a piece of stale bread from a plate and chewing on it for lack of anything better to do.

“Nothin’ like ex-lovers to ruin the mood, eh?”

She swallowed the mouthful of stale bread and threw the rest into the fireplace. “Too right.” She glanced around the table and wished she had kept some of the mead, but it was too late for that. “Do you ever wonder if things could have gone differently with Branka or Felsi?”

“Maybe. I dunno, that’s usually about the time I just… well, yeah. I might’ve thought about it a time or two, but I generally try not to.”

About the time he reached for the bottle, he’d meant. He laughed wryly, but it wasn’t really funny, not for either of them. She’d been stupid enough at one time to think she’d have a future with Alistair, just as Oghren had no doubt thought he’d have a future with Branka, and later with Felsi and his daughter.

Why had she been so foolish? So utterly _stupid_? The second she learned of his ancestry she should have just walked away, not walked right into his thrice-damned bed. She was an elf. She was a mage. He was the son of a king, bastard or not. And now he _was_ a king.

He’d seemed so kind and sweet and innocent. Not so kind nor sweet nor innocent that he could not break up with her on the eve of a battle that could have ended both their lives, even if he was bitter over being placed on the throne. It hadn’t been about him, though, or her. It was bigger than the both of them. Even she, after growing up isolated in a Circle tower, could see that Ferelden was falling apart at the seams, and Anora was too divisive a figure to reunite a nation. Alistair might have been a bastard, and a virtual unknown, but he was also a Theirin, and names and bloodlines, as abstract and pointless as they were, made for powerful symbols.

He hadn’t seen it that way, and he’d turned his back on her with nothing but an empty-sounding apology. Part of her hoped he was as miserable as she was.

“Why’d you come back, Oghren?”

He shrugged at her and snuffled a bit, but did not answer.

 


	2. Raining In My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is out, the sky is blue  
> There's not a cloud to spoil the view  
> But it's raining, raining in my heart...

She read over the letter again, wondering what the hell the man was thinking. It was Alistair's own terrible handwriting, that alone was something a bit shocking – every other missive she'd received from the King had been dictated and written in flourishing script by a trained scribe, or delivered orally by a messenger. Everything else about it was very business-like in tone, if occasionally poorly spelled.

He wanted to know more about the Architect and his following of speaking darkspawn. What the hell else did he think she could tell him? She'd written down every detail she'd been able to recall and sent it to him after the battle with the “Mother”. He'd asked her to come to the palace, yet again, ostensibly to discuss the subject in person, but she saw no point.

She folded the letter haphazardly and stuffed it into her robes. The ride from Vigil's Keep to Denerim was far from the longest she'd undertaken, but even the thought of it made her feel exhausted now. _He wants something_ , she thought. _This letter is an excuse, not a reason_. It wasn't even a very good excuse. _What do you want, Alistair? An apology? You won't get one, not from me. I did what was best for Ferelden, and so did you, whether you wanted to or not. Abdicate and let Anora reign... if you have the balls to do it._

She had half a mind to just write a letter in return telling him to get his kingly ass off his throne and come talk to her at Vigil's Keep if he were that curious. She'd found him charming when they were lovers. He'd often ask her for guidance, or spend long hours talking about all of his doubts and worries. Looking back, he just seemed terribly childish, now. They were the same age, but he seemed allergic to the concept of making a choice and standing by it.

Well, other than the one where he told her that she could not remain by his side because Duty and Honor (and, probably, that ever important Keeping Up Appearances), and ending their relationship.

It's not that he's stupid, whatever Morrigan had always insisted. Inexperienced, perhaps, certainly stubborn, but not _stupid_. It would be easier, perhaps, if he were.

The darker parts of herself sometimes wondered if she should have just told Morrigan to take a flying leap, never talked Alistair into spending a night in the witch's bed. Then she'd be dead and she wouldn't have to think about all of this. Or perhaps Alistair would be dead, and... she wouldn't have to think about this. Either way...

Surana stood up and cursed herself for her own cruel thoughts. She hated that part of herself, tried to keep it pushed down somewhere dark and hidden.

She went up to her rooms to pack for a trip to Denerim. Alistair didn't particularly care for Oghren, but Surana didn't particularly care about Alistair's opinion, she would ask him to come as well. She'd go as the King commanded, but she wouldn't go alone.

 

* * *

 

“I'm leaving for Denerim in the morning, and I want you to come, are you up to it?”

“Do nugs shit everywhere? Oghren's always up for anything... and I do mean _up_ for _anything_. Eheheh...”

That cocky grin told her pretty much everything she needed to know. He was more or less feeling himself again, it seemed. He looked healthier, at least, and had regained much of the weight he'd lost, and maybe a bit more. Too much time sitting around Vigil's Keep and pestering the servants, clearly. If she could just keep him away from the bottle on this trip... well, he couldn't stay locked up forever. He'd get bored and start breaking things, sooner or later. He'd already concussed a few recruits in the sparring yard.

“Oh, by the way, I've got something for you.” She led Oghren back to her room, where the gift she'd intended for Sigrun was still propped against the wall in its linen wrapping. It had been collecting dust for over a month. What use did a mage have for such a thing? None. But a dwarven berserker... She grabbed the axe and pushed it into Oghren's hands.

“Here, see if you can use this.”

“Hmm... well let me have a look.” He unwrapped the axe and held it up to the thin late afternoon sunlight pouring in from the window. He scratched at the flowing design engraved on the blade with a thumbnail “Bit, er, fancy for my taste, but....” He stepped back and swung it, turning it over in his hands in dramatic figure-eights. “Good balance. One of Wade's?”

“Yea, he made it not long ago, from that silverite ore we found in the forest.”

“It's good work, but he don't know Oghren too well if he thinks I want leaves and flowers doodled all over my axe blade.”

“It was meant for Sigrun, but she left the night before I was going to give it to her.”

Oghren paused, meeting Surana's eyes, a tense expression on his face. Surana looked away first, turning to busy herself with pointless rearranging of the contents of her traveling pack again.

Oghren cleared his throat noisily behind her. “Never did know why she left. Bit sudden, wasn't it?”

Surana shrugged, her back still turned to him. “I suppose. I think maybe she wanted to go back to the Legion, or the Deep Roads in general. She never said anything to me, didn't know she was planning to go until she was just gone.” _I had thought we were friends_ , she added to herself, _but clearly she had other thoughts_.

“The Legion of the Dead aren't known for their manners, darlin', I wouldn't think on it too much. The axe is good, I won't notice the flowers once they're covered with guts anyway, right?”

 

* * *

 

Her favorite mount had gone lame a few days before and the horse she was riding in its stead was getting on her nerves. It pulled at the reins, had taken the bit in its teeth twice before she readjusted the bridle, and was generally ill-tempered. She'd have to talk to the stable hands when she got back. Why had they given her this beast? They had other horses in the stable, several of which she knew were sound and well-trained.

To make matters more annoying, the weather had turned to rain and the wind was hitting them head-on most of the time. There was an outcropping of rock near the road up ahead that she remembered, and it might make adequate shelter for the night if the bandits that frequented the area during the Blight had not returned. Perhaps the foul weather would discourage them, she hoped so anyway. “Let's stop up here and camp for the night.”

Oghren turned slightly, looking back at her from the back of the pony he was riding just ahead of her. “Ain't that late yet, we could go for a few more hours.”

A sudden gust of wind pulled the hood of her cloak back and her sodden hair whipped around, much of it ending up in her mouth. She reached up and shoved it behind a pointed ear. “We could, but we're not.”

Oghren snorted and laughed at her. “Not too keen to get to ol' Alistair's, eh? Don't tell me you're still pinin' over that sod-”

Surana shot him a look that could curdle milk and he wisely shut his mouth rather than continue to provoke the mage. She coaxed her unruly horse to move off the road and under the shelf of stone. She tied the animal's reigns to a small tree nearby and dragged the tent and bedroll from its haunches. If she were lucky, the oilskin wrapped around the bedroll will have kept it relatively dry.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, the oilskin had not done a particularly good job of keeping her bedroll dry. At some point the twine had come loose and the wind had finished the job of soaking most of it thoroughly. It wasn't yet winter, but the Autumn was wearing on and with sunset, the temperature had become quite chilly. The rain had abated to a light drizzle, but the wind still cut into her damp clothing. She'd given up on the cloak, which was too wet to keep her warm at this point, and left it spread out on the ground underneath the stone overhang.

She hadn't found dry wood, but one of the perks of being a mage is that you can make your own dry wood if need be. The campfire was small and not particularly warming, but it was better than nothing. Surana sat beside it shivering on a small boulder while Oghren stripped to his trousers and climbed into his still perfectly dry bedroll, the lucky cow.

 

* * *

 

“Aaaah! Sodding woman, you have any idea how cold your feet are!?”

“Oh, shut up, Oghren.”

“Fer someone who claims she ain't interested, you seem pretty keen on havin' old Oghren in your--”

“I said _shut up_.”

“Hmph, nothin' but a hot water bottle to you, am I? That's gratitude for ya...”

 

 

* * *

 

The sun finally returned as they reached Denerim. The city was much as she remembered it – dirty, cramped and full of people who had forgotten who she was, if they had ever known, and looked at her and Oghren with expressions ranging from detached curiosity to outright hostility.

The damage to the walls and Fort Drakon had been repaired, but many of the smaller wooden structures were gone, nothing but weeds growing over their former foundations. The Chantry looked the same as it ever did, a pair of bored Templars loitering in front as a chanter droned nearby. They eyed her staff suspiciously, but eventually noted her typical Grey Warden armor and garb and went back to leaning against the ancient wood of the Chantry doors.

The gate to the elven alienage, at least, stood open now, although its residents were much reduced in number these days. Too many had been sold off to the Tevinter slavers before she'd been able to intervene, and many more perished in the fight with the archdemon. She'd been born there, she knew, but she barely remembered anything about it, having been whisked away to the Circle as soon as she'd manifested her abilities at the age of nine. If she had family there once, she doubted they still lived and wasn't sure she wanted to find out anyway.

 

* * *

 

She'd announced herself to the steward once they entered Fort Drakon, who disappeared through a small side door, rather than the large double-doors to the main gallery. She leaned against a pillar, picking dirt from underneath her fingernails. Oghren tried to flirt with one of the servants, who merely rolled her eyes and kept walking, disappearing down a side corridor, leaving Oghren to sulk on his own. “Don't you recognize a big damn hero when you see one!” he called after her.

Surana glanced up to see Oghren pulling at a beard braid in frustration. “Don't bet on it, Oghren, none of them care now that the archdemon's dead and they're not about to be eaten up.”

“Oh, that's not entirely true.”

Surana startled at the sound of the familiar voice behind her, nearly tripping over her own feet as she stood up and turned. Anora stood in the doorway the steward had gone through twenty minutes before.

Queen Anora nodded almost imperceptibly at the both of them in turn. “Warden-Commander, Warden.”

Surana blinked at her, standing for a moment, before she remembered she was expected to bow and acknowledge her Queen. After some hesitation, she did so, trying not to think of how much she loathed the woman who slept each night with the man she'd once loved.

“I must admit this is an unexpected pleasure, Warden-Commander. What brings you to Fort Drakon?”

Her words were polite and formal, but there was something not quite genuine about the bland smile, Surana thought. That she was not expected, though, confused her. _Should I make some excuse, protect Alistair from his wife's possible wrath?_ Surana's brows drew together in annoyance. Alistair was a terrible liar and useless at subterfuge. _Whatever he's playing at, I'm not going to be a piece on the chessboard_.

Surana reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter that Alistair had personally written, and handed it to Anora. The Queen scanned over it, then turned, motioning for the two Wardens to follow her to a lavish sitting room. Surana sat on one of the velvet-covered chairs, not caring in the slightest what her road-worn leathers would do to the material. Oghren stood to one side and helped himself to a plate of expensive-looking Orlesian teacakes on the side table next to a half finished pot of tea that Anora had no doubt been enjoying before they interrupted with their arrival.

Anora diplomatically ignored him and turned to Surana. “Pardon me if I am in error, but did you not send a full report on this matter several months ago?”

“I did, your Highness.” _Should I even ask about Alistair_ , she thought. _Should I demand to see him as he requested_?

“Whatever does he want to discuss it again for?”

“He did not say, Highness. I know only what is in that letter.”

Anora paused to read over the letter again. “Hm, what an odd thing. Perhaps my husband is overly stressed. I shall have the healers attend to him, I think.”

The queen rose and gestured to an elven servant. “Lead our guests to one of the diplomatic suites, I imagine they are fatigued after traveling from Vigil's Keep.” She turned back to Surana. “I must insist you stay the night, it is a long journey.”

Surana could think of a multitude of things she'd rather do than spend even one more hour in Fort Drakon, breathing the same air as Alistair and this woman she'd practically thrown him at, writing herself out of his life in the process. She smiled as falsely as the Queen had, and they both knew it. “Of course, your Highness, you are, as always, generous.”

She grabbed Oghren by the shoulder, as he had long ceased to pay attention to the conversation, and tugged at him until he put the now nearly empty plate down and followed her and the servant back to the foyer and down another hallway. Her neck itched where Anora's piercing gaze had watched her leave.

 

* * *

 

“She thinks I'm after her bloody husband again. I'm the one who told him to marry her! I sure as hell didn't write that letter, either. I should have thrown it in the fireplace. Damn him!” Surana flopped down on the overstuffed mattress, lifting one boot and then another to unlace them. She used the toe of each foot to kick the other boot off. They'd been given a pair of bedrooms with a shared sitting room and an indoor privy between them. The bedrooms at Vigil's Keep were rather spartan by comparison, and she felt uncomfortable with the lush surroundings.

She rolled over face down on the bed, resting her forehead against her crossed arms. _All this fancy shit belongs to Alistair. If I hadn't been an elf, if I hadn't been a mage... it might have belonged to_ _me_.

“Stupid bloody Alistair,” she mumbled into the duvet.

“You still hung up on that nug humper, darlin'? Eh, he didn't deserve you anyway.”

She flinched at Oghren's voice, having forgotten he was in the room. She grit her teeth against the wave of misery that welled up inside her. She'd been telling herself for a year now that she didn't care, that none of it mattered. They stopped the Blight, she restored the Theirin line to the throne of Ferelden and ended a civil war, and didn't die doing it.

Why did she feel like she'd lost a war? She tilted slightly, until she could just barely see Oghren from the corner of one damp, red-rimmed eye. She sat up sharply when she noticed the half-empty wine bottle in one hand and snatched it from him. To his credit, he only flinched slightly when it smashed on the floor and did not complain, only blushing slightly instead.

Surana stood and pulled a spare blanket from the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, throwing it over the broken glass and shoving it with a toe until wine, glass and blanket were all bunched into a far corner of the room. “Why'd you come back, Oghren?”

He shrugged as he sat down on the bed, his short legs dangling over the side, but he said nothing.

 

* * *

 

Just after dawn, she was woken up by a servant who led her (but not Oghren) to a sitting room where two chairs and a table have been uncovered. The rest of the furniture lay under dusty sheets and she could see the dust in the recently-stirred air dancing in the early morning sunlight in the window.

Bored and slightly confused, she sat tracing meaningless patterns into the musty-smelling velvet of the armchair, breathing the scent of stale dust.

 

* * *

 

 “Warden-Commander?”

She looks up, and Alistair stands just inside the door, which he closes softly behind him as he enters the room. He's wearing a tunic and trousers that are of good quality but hardly anything she'd call “kingly.” She tells herself she doesn't notice that he's gained weight in all the right places, having filled out through the shoulders particularly, making for a rather pleasing silhouette. Even his face is less boyish in appearance and he could almost be mistaken for his late elder brother.

She knows she's lost weight, by comparison, and she's always had a slight build to begin with, as most elves do. Her appetite is unreliable these days and she sometimes forgets meals. She always has dark circles under her eyes, as her sleep is generally poor and interrupted by regular nightmares. She tries not to feel self-conscious, but it is a struggle.

Surana finally remembers herself and stands, bowing as his station demands. “Your Majesty.”

His face flushes red and he half-smiles at her, shuffling on his feet like he used to back when they first met, before everything that had happened afterward. Surana manages to keep her expression neutral, despite the conflicting emotions battling for the space inside her mind. She wants to throw herself into his arms, she wants to hit him, hard. She wants to kiss him, she wants to shout at him and shake him until he hurts as much as she does. “You asked to see me, to discuss the matter of The Architect again?”

He laughs nervously, a brittle sound dampened by the small room and its curtained furnishing. “Well... sort of. I have been getting people to look into the matter a bit more, and was wondering if the Wardens' archives had information, but... How are you, by the way? I've found myself thinking about you lately and I just...”

The churning emotions inside her solidified into the calmness found in the eye of a storm. He was playing with her, and the sad thing was, he probably didn't even realize it. It was bad enough that he'd rebuked her and sent her away, now he wants to act like they're just old friends? It was almost worse than the charade he'd been playing in their previous reunions, like they'd never known each other at all.

Why couldn't he just acknowledge what had happened? She wasn't going to give him what he clearly wanted; she wasn't going to tell him that she was perfectly happy and fine and that he hadn't really hurt her at all.

“We've been recruiting, but with the Blight over, there's not much urgency to the matter. The damage to Amaranthine has mostly been repaired and the roads have been kept clear of bandits.”

Alistair's head tilted and his jaw slackened, his lips parting slightly. He looked like her old Mabari when he wasn't quite sure of something. “I, ah... that's not what I meant.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him, her lips pressing into a thin line, until it finally sunk in that she knew damned good and well what he'd meant.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, crossing the room to prop himself next to the window, gazing out over the city below. “Anora was right, this was a mistake.” He turned back to her, looking over her for a long moment while she stood passively, revealing nothing. “It's just... I know things didn't end well but I still _care_ about you. You know that, right? I--”

Whatever he thought she'd feel about that statement, it probably wasn't the anger swiftly spreading like wildfire in her heart. She held one hand up, halting his speech. She stood and walked to the door, refusing to look behind her.

She was grateful that he did not follow, as she was not certain she could have restrained her reaction.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't until she'd smashed the third piece of crockery that Oghren woke up and stumbled into the common room between the bedrooms. “Darlin', are you...”

Perhaps it was childish of her, but it was the only thing keeping her from literally burning the place up. She couldn't let go too much, lest she inadvertently catch the attention of a rage demon in the Fade, but she could no longer withstand the pressure of everything that had happened over the last few years.

The nightmare was over, but the dawn had brought nothing but a yawning emptiness inside her. She'd lost control of her life, that much was dead obvious. When was the last time she'd chosen something for herself? She'd been taken to the Circle as a child, she'd been drafted into the Wardens after being threatened with Rite of Tranquility, and had been dragged into the conflicts of not just Ferelden, but between a pack of werewolves and Dalish, and a succession crisis in Orzammar. Oh, of course, she'd chosen to fall in love with Alistair and pursue him, _that_ was her own wretched doing.

She flopped into an armchair and pulled her knees into her chest, hating herself all the more when she could not stop herself from crying.

'Er, uh...” Oghren stood in front of her, clearly at a loss how to respond to her outburst, whatever flippant joke he might've said forgotten. He milled around for a moment then awkwardly patted and rubbed at her shoulders while staring at his own feet.

 

* * *

 

The weather on their return to Vigil's Keep was sunny and relatively warm, but the trip was uncomfortable for other reasons. Oghren kept up the stream of bawdy jokes and halfhearted complaining, but she barely heard him. She stopped to set camp under the same stone outcrop that they had on the way down, but didn't bother to light a fire. Her bedroll was perfectly dry now, but she crawled into Oghren's again anyway, feeling cold despite fair weather.

“Er, uh...”

She curled into him now, pressing her face against his shoulder, murmuring more to herself than to him, “Why'd you come back, Oghren?”

He grumbled a bit and shifted. “No reason not to.”

She poked him in the ribs. “What the hell does that even mean?”

He rubbed at the spot she'd poked and fidgeted beside her. “I just wanted to, okay? Do I need some great big reason?”

She threw an arm over him, pulling herself into him further. He stiffened for several long moments before relaxing again. She fell asleep to the feeling of his blunt fingers running through her hair.

 

* * *

 

When they got back to Vigil's Keep, she retreated into her room, and into herself, leaving the more senior Wardens to deal with the day-to-day running of things. There didn't seem much point, when she thought about it – certainly someday another Blight would begin, but they typically occurred decades if not centuries apart. She had no desire to relive that particular phenomenon, anyway.

 _You can’t just stop being a Grey Warden_ , she’d told Nathaniel, _the taint is irreversible_. He'd “retired” and left anyway. Anders had done the same, and Velanna and Sigrun, too, had abandoned Vigil's Keep.

Surana could pack up and leave, if she wanted, couldn't she? She wasn't just some rank-and-file Grey Warden, though, she was _Warden Commander_. Her absence would be noticed and remarked upon, to say the least. Would they send someone after her? Anders had once again been branded an Apostate and his face emblazoned the chanters' boards across the region, with a bounty attached.

Where the hell would she go, anyway? She couldn't return to Kinloch Hold and wouldn't want to even if she could. The place had always been nothing less than a gilded prison, and after being taken over by abominations, she could only expect it to be even moreso, despite the greatly reduced number of residents, both Templar and mage.

 

* * *

 

She found a bottle of mead one night, in the bottom of a crate of old clothing that she'd somehow missed in her earlier purge. She returned to her room with it and drank it, too much and too fast, and before she knew it, the bottle was empty and her head was swimming. She could not recall ever getting truly drunk before in her life – it wasn't a good hobby for mages, generally, as it tended to weaken one's self-control. It wasn't allowed in the circle, although a few mages had their own secret stashes and brewed some truly foul stuff.

She leaned against the wall and shuffled barefoot toward Oghren's room through some sort of semi-panicked instinct. He knew how to deal with this, didn't he? Well, not really, part of her mind responded, given that his his idea of “dealing with it” was to drink more until you no longer cared how drunk you were. Or, it had been, until recently.

She was only a few feet from his door when she suddenly felt embarrassed, not to mention foolish, and she tried to turn around to go back to her own room, but stumbled instead. She sprawled on the floor where she landed, sniffling pathetically as she cried.

She wasn't sure how long she was on the floor, but stout hands grasped her under her arms and lifted her, if not quite to her feet, at least mostly upright. Oghren wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her along. She did her best to obey, putting one foot unsteadily in front of the other until she found herself being ushered onto her own bed again. She rolled onto her back, squinting at the ceiling in the dim candlelight.

“D'you feel like you need to puke? Cos you need to say if you are.”

She ran a shaky hand over her face and her throat, then shook her head in the negative. She wasn't queasy, just completely and utterly off-balance.

“You ever drank like this before, darlin'? Cos come to think of it, I really don't remember you ever...”

She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely.

“Yea, didn't think so. Thought you'd chucked out everything, anyway. Where the hell did you even find...” He leaned over her, taking a sniff at her hot breath. “Mead?” He stood back and laughed, although not unkindly. “Stuff's weak as piss! Y'really are a lightweight.”

She tried to glare at him, but the effect was more humorous than intimidating in her current state. “Skipped dinner.” She cringed at the slight slur in her voice.

He sat beside her, leaning against the headboard of the bed and stretching his bare feet out. “There's your first mistake. Well, second, after drinking that rat piss to begin with.”

His grin fell and he looked pensive. It had been over two months since his last real drink, other than the slip up with the wine she'd confiscated from him at Fort Drakon. It meant something to her, she realized, that he was willing to stop. She knew it wasn't easy for him. He didn't complain, he only ever complained about things that didn't really matter. She'd known him long enough now to know that the quieter he was about something, the more it really mattered to him. He was a noisy sort of person, but he was also a very silent person.

Much like herself these days.

She shifted slightly, peering up at him. He actually smelled faintly of soap, for once, rather than stale sweat. Well, even Oghren had to bathe on rare occasions. She rolled over and swung a hand out until she caught hold of the linen tunic he'd worn to bed. “Stay?”

He blinked at her and rolled his eyes. “Oh, alright, your bleedin' hot water bottle is at your service, Warden Commander.” He grumbled and shook his head as he yanked the blanket out from under her and blew the candle out before he climbed in beside her. “You'll have a hell of a headache come morning, just warnin' ya.”

 

* * *

 

It was not yet dawn when she woke the next morning. There was an ache behind her eyes but not as bad as she'd feared it would be. Oghren was still asleep in her bed, a dense weight and warmth beside her.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at nothing in the darkness of the room. There had only ever been one other man she'd shared a bed with. Her time with Alistair was well and truly over, though, whatever regrets the King might harbor over his decision to dismiss her. Even if he came to her doorstep and begged her to return with him, to warm his bed as his mistress, as she once thought she would... she knew now that she'd have to tell him to kindly fuck off, King or no King. He was Anora's problem, now.

She had loved him. Had she loved him? It had been a sort of puppy-love, she thought. Both of them had been naive and inexperienced in some ways, it was a first love that was probably always doomed to break in the end. Yes, she _had_ loved him. Part of her still did, and always would. But they saved the world together and then he sent her away, and that was that.

And, one by one, her friends had also cut ties and scattered to the four winds. Well, not all of them. She rolled over, finding Oghren beside her. He was just as fucked up as she was, loud and rude and sometimes cruel and sometimes stupid, and just as broken inside. Half the time she didn't know what the hell he was thinking. But he was the one who always came back to her, who always stood by her side, who always defended her against those who tear her down, who always picked her up, and maybe that was what mattered the most.

Surana curled herself around him, laying her head over his broad chest, listening to him breathe.

Who needs a King, anyway?

 


	3. The Water is Wide, I Cannot Get Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh love be handsome and love be kind / Gay as a jewel when first it is new_   
>  _But love grows old and waxes cold / And fades away like the morning dew_   
>  _Must I go bound while you go free / Must I love a man who doesn't love me_   
>  _Must I be born with so little art / As to love a man who'll break my heart_

Surana threw items haphazardly into the satchel, grabbing a change of clothing, a stash of elfroot and lyrium potions, and a few dried herbs. Her head ached, as it always seemed to ache these days, and she felt like she was trapped in a kind of fog.

Years had passed since that last awkward meeting with Alistair. She thought, as she had thought often in the intervening time, that she ought to seek him out, seek his aid. He had to feel it, too, she knew he did. He might have left the Grey Wardens behind when he assumed the throne, but he couldn't leave the taint behind, any more than she could divest herself of the accursed pull that was tearing her mind apart, much as it had wreaked havoc over the entirety of Vigil's Keep over the last weeks.

She had sent word to the Wardens in Orlais a month ago, and had yet to receive any reply. Some of her people had headed westward, determined to seek them out despite their unknown status. Had they all been driven mad as well?

How the hell could _every single Grey Warden_ suddenly be overcome with the Calling, all at once? It was pure insanity – even the greenest recruits were growing restless, leaving in ones and twos as the days passed. Some left directly for the Deep Roads, desperate to relieve the nightmares and anxiety that plagued them all, even if that relief came only with death. Others had announced their intent to travel to other Warden holds around Thedas, heading toward the Free Marches or Antiva, hoping someone had a cure, or at least an explanation.

Surana had pleaded for patience while she sent messages out to various friends and contacts begging for information, but she had not bothered to try and restrain her people, as one might as well try to tame a starving wolf. Being a Grey Warden was not for the weak or fainthearted. The taint gave one immense fortitude, but it was a trade-off in ways she had not fully understood before her own Joining. It tended to give a keener edge to all of one's senses and emotions, to bring out a sort of feralness in one's personality. She had never experienced such mood swings before, to say the least – not even as an adolescent. Duncan hadn't bothered to warn her about that, not that she'd had a choice anyway. And while it was common knowledge that Wardens tended not to live into a ripe old age, and that most left for the Deep Roads once the Song overtook them, nobody had ever told her what that compulsion really was. It was somewhat poetically referred to as “The Calling” but that barely did justice to the unrelenting pressure that was inside her head. It was a feeling like being both the hunted and the hunter at the same time.

Suffice it to say, she slept poorly most nights now. She managed to sleep fitfully beside her last friend some nights; Oghren's familiar presence was soothing, but rapidly becoming inadequate with the mounting pressure affecting them both.

“It ain't right, this ain't right, it just... it's just not _natural_.”

Surana looked at Oghren where he sat on the edge of her bed, his heels beating a halting rhythm against the bed frame. He mumbled to himself, shaking his head repeatedly. They both felt it, of course, there was no denying it.

“Of course it isn't natural.” Surana swung the satchel over her shoulder and grabbed her staff. “Nothing about the Grey Wardens is natural. Nothing about the Darkspawn is natural.” Oghren flinched when she spoke and looked up at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. Perhaps he had. There were none of them left, now, other than the non-Warden servants who did not carry the taint.

At least he looked more _present_ now, the far-off, glazed look in his eyes coming to focus on her. “I mean it's more unnatural than the usual sort of unnatural. Somebody's doing this. D'ye think that Architect weirdo...?”

Surana thought about it for a moment. “Maybe? He's used Grey Wardens before, in his experiments. He was using Warden blood to wake his Darkspawn followers. Bloody idiot started the Blight trying it out on an Archdemon. Foolish... but... I don't know. It doesn't feel like one of his schemes. He said he would not molest the Wardens again.”

Oghren snorted, not quite laughing. “You trust the word of that blighter?”

Surana shrugged. She never quite knew what to make of her encounter with the Architect. He'd fought against the Mother with them, and had departed with something like a peace accord, if only verbal. She'd hoped... well, she ought to know better by now than to hope for anything.

Weisshaupt was a hell of a long way away, she thought. They'd never make it all the way through the Anderfels without going mad, first, but she had to try – if this Calling was truly occurring across all of Thedas, the next Blight would come without any Grey Wardens to oppose it, and that was not a possibility Surana wished to dwell upon.

There was a cure, somewhere out there in the world. There had to be. She would find it, or die in the attempt. She'd already exchanged correspondence with Avernus at Soldier's Peak. His methods were... not really viable, not for the entire population of Grey Wardens. He had promised (under threat of death, of course) to conduct his research by more ethical means, but that also meant his original method of prolonging his life could not be replicated. Not at such a cost. Surana had done some questionable things in her life, but she had to draw the line somewhere, lest they all become no better than the Darkspawn themselves.

She wished Nathaniel had stayed. He was good with a bow, and would have been handy to have out in the wilds – he'd always been good at hunting game. Velanna's herb-lore had been far better than her own, and she, too, would have been a boon companion. Anders was still the best healer she'd ever met. With Sigrun at her side, she would need not fear bandits. Not that Oghren couldn't handle them just the same, but two stout dwarves at one's side was certainly better than one.

She'd give anything to see any of them again, really. Shale, or Sten, Leliana or Wynne, Zevran or Morrigan. Even Alistair's stupid face. And dammit, she wanted her dog back. But it was too late for regrets now, far too late. Wherever her former companions had ended up, they were well beyond her reach.

Surana took hold of Oghren's hand and pulled him to his feet. He had already packed what he intended to take and left it at the stables where their horses were being readied. There wasn't much left to do, as she'd already left detailed instructions for the servants, and had left the most trusted in charge. She had not told anyone precisely where she was going, or how long she would be gone, because truthfully – she didn't really know. She had a vague plan of traveling to the Anderfels and seeking aid at Weisshaupt, but who knew how long she'd be gone? Surana paused only for a moment when they stepped outside, then took the reins of her horse from the stable hand as Oghren did the same.

The last Grey Wardens of Vigil's Keep departed together, perhaps forever.

 

* * *

 

They'd left southern Thedas behind just as it began to descend into chaos. They were traveling as swiftly as they could without killing themselves or their mounts, and yet groups of fleeing Orlesians and Fereldans sped past them on the road with some regularity. They were passing through the Free Marches when they'd managed to get news out of one group – the Templars and the Circle mages were in full rebellion, and Orlais had a civil war going on in earnest.

Surana could ill afford to look back. It was not the place of the Wardens to get involved in such matters, even if they'd made the mistake of getting political in the past. No, her objective remained the same. She wondered if any of her former friends in Kinloch Hold had survived. Plenty had died during the blight, killed by Templars or abominations, but she'd recognized a few faces still living when they'd freed the tower.

 

* * *

 

Surana stared at the ceiling of the cave they were camped in for the night. Clusters of deep mushrooms offered faint illumination, despite the cloudy, starless night. The horses stood just in the entrance, sheltered from the wind. They'd arrived at the southern slopes of the mountains dividing Nevarra from the Tevinter Emperium and it had her teeth set on edge just being this close.

Oghren grumbled where he lay beside her. “It would save us two weeks, woman, what's the problem?”

Surana shook her head. “I'm not going into Tevinter. I don't care if there's a hoard of Darkspawn after us, I'm not setting foot in that damned empire.”

“We're not buying a bleedin' house there, if we stay just off the road I doubt anyone will even _notice_ \--”

“What's Tevinter known for, Oghren?,” she protested. “Slaves. _Elven_ slaves.”

She heard him huff and scratch at his chin, as he often did when he was momentarily at a loss for words.

“You're a Warden, though. And a mage. They like mages, don't they?”

“I'm sure I'd fetch a very good price indeed, yes.”

“The highest, I've no doubt,” Oghren replied, although his tone was darker than the jest, then he promptly changed the subject. “What do you think that bright flash was the other night?”

Surana had tried her best not think about it. It had been a few weeks ago and come from the general direction of the Frostback mountains, a bright green light that had flared, suddenly. After nightfall, she could still sometimes see a faint veridian glow on the southern horizon. That initial burst had left her feeling sick to her stomach, and her magic had felt... odd, ever since. Like there was something else pulling from the same source, leaving the flow of energy from the Fade just slightly enfeebled. Along with the ever-present pressure in her head from whatever was mimicking the Calling, she was feeling ever more off-kilter with each passing day. Sometimes it was difficult for her to tell if she were awake or trapped in a dream. They were only halfway to the Anderfels and she was already exhausted.

Surana shifted over and rested her head on Oghren's shoulder. He was the only truly solid point in her life and for once, she was infinitely grateful that dwarves had no natural access to the Fade. She could not be sure of much of anything in her life anymore, except for him.

'Y'alright there?” His voice was quite close to her ear, a vibration as much as a sound.

Surana swallowed against a wave of despair that threatened to overtake her. She rarely cried and refused to indulge in such an activity tonight. It was too late for tears, anyway. Instead, she wrapped herself around her companion more closely. Oghren squeaked, then cleared his throat loudly to cover the rather ridiculous noise, but did not push her aside.

Surana had no idea what she was thinking, really, but she kissed him, anyway. He did nothing at first – did not respond to her nor protest. After a moment, he kissed her back, his broad hands moving to her waist to steady her, but after a few moments, he let go of her. He shifted, sitting up slightly and Surana pulled away, feeling her face heat up in embarrassment. Clearly, he didn't think of her like that, so she moved aside, turning her back toward him to give him space.

Oghren cleared his throat again behind her. “Er, uh. I don't mean... that is to say....”

Surana shook her head as she laid down on her own bedroll again, suddenly feeling supremely uncomfortable in her own skin. “I... sorry, Oghren. I shouldn't have just assumed that... well, I wasn't thinking.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning they packed up camp together in heavy silence. She could still feel the ghost of him against her lips, the pressure of his hands on her waist. Even in just that brief moment, he'd been... well, something. Something that Alistair had not been, and part of her still wanted to know what it was. She'd slept with Alistair, more than once, stealing whatever time they could at camp, hoping their companions would not overhear, or at least have the sense not to say anything if they did. She'd thought for the longest time that neither of them would survive the Blight and there had been a sort of desperation in their lovemaking, on her part at least. On his part, there had always been a lot of nervous giggling and babbling of nonsense. His blushing and nervousness had at the time been, well, _cute_ , for lack of a better term. She'd had no more experience with lovemaking than he had, anyway, and was in no position to pass judgment. She'd grown up in Kinloch Hold and her friends there had been more like siblings than potential lovers, and the omnipresence of the Templars did not really create a mood for romance. She recalled one young Templar whom she had often caught staring hungrily at her, but it had made her feel like something pinned on a dissection board, not romantic. She'd been in love with Alistair, though, and had enjoyed her time with him. He might have been unskilled, but he'd certainly been enthusiastic.

Oghren, though... Surana shook her head, trying to push such thoughts aside. Her curiosity was her own problem, after all, not his, and she had no right to demand what he was not of a mind to give. She didn't even know why, suddenly, after years of friendship, she'd begun thinking of him in such a way. She'd never paid much attention to his flirting with other woman, other than those times she had censured him for some of the ruder comments.

She watched Oghren from the corner of her eye as he grumbled and moved about, tying up his bedroll and lashing it to the haunches of the smaller of their two horses, which fidgeted and snorted and would not stay still. The weather had turned damp overnight. They'd awoken to a gray dawn and a light but steady drizzle that made Oghren's beard and hair frizzy and unmanageable. His red hair had begun growing out as they traveled and it now curled over his forehead and ears and stuck out at odd angles in places. He'd taken a comb and tried to flatten it back earlier, with much cursing involved.

They hadn't spoken directly to one another since waking, and he would not quite meet her eyes. It had been a mistake, clearly. She just wasn't sure why. He'd always been quite fond of women of all stripes and had flirted with nearly every woman who crossed his path. Except her, though, not since those very first days after they'd met. She could recall one or two half-hearted comments, maybe, in the Deep Roads as they pursued Branka, but nothing after. She wasn't quite sure what she'd done wrong. It wasn't that he disliked her – he'd named his daughter after her, and that had to count for something.

Everything packed up, they mounted their horses and set off again into the foggy morning.

 

* * *

 

“Whatcha wanna bet we get all the way to Weisshaupt and it's bleedin' empty,” Oghren groused behind her.

Surana twitched her shoulders, shrugging at Oghren's doomsaying. She'd had the same thought, of course. They'd get there and the Wardens would have no answer. They'd get there and there would be no Wardens to even hear her question. The only blessing on this unpleasant, monotonous journey so far was that the Calling seemed to be weakening the further they went. It wasn't gone, certainly, but it was more like an annoying buzzing in her ears than the constant pressure it had been. It was the only thing that had given her a shred of true hope in years – that perhaps if they could not cure this clearly false Calling, then maybe they could at least outrun it.

At least Oghren was, apparently, speaking to her again. It had been three days since she'd made an ass out of herself by trying to kiss him. She'd not had the courage to get close to him again in any fashion and missed the warmth of him by her side as she slept at night. They'd have to stop again soon, though, as the horses were tiring, and her own stomach was complaining. Their rations were running out and she'd caught a rabbit in a snare the day before but one rabbit did not go very far between two Grey Wardens.

There were a half dozen plumes of smoke in the distance, and she was hoping that it was a village of some sort. She'd had the sense to bring coin with them, at least. They needed food and at this point, she was willing to splurge on real beds for the night if there was some sort of inn.

 

* * *

 

Fortuitously, she'd been correct. She let the stable boy at the small inn take the horses and left Oghren with a handful of coins to pay for their rooms. It was not yet night, but the afternoon was growing old and she wanted rest.

She parted with Oghren to head off to the small village square to see what the merchant stalls had on offer. They could eat dinner tonight at the inn, but if there were something that would hold up to travel, she'd willingly pay whatever the price was. She was sick of rabbits and the few edible roots and mushrooms she'd managed to scrabble together over the past couple of weeks. They'd passed a few streams and there was a river nearby, but she had no net or fishing rod and had never learned how to fish with a bow, although she knew it was possible.

She struggled a bit haggling with the farmers and merchants, using mostly hand gestures to negotiate prices. A few of them spoke a bit of her language, but most did not. In the end, she felt she'd been scalped, but at least she had some hard bread that would travel well, a bag of apples that would last a week or so, and some dried beef and venison that might get them to Weisshaupt with body and soul still knit together.

 

* * *

  
The language barrier was no hindrance to Oghren, of course, who knew the language of taverns, inns and bars everywhere. He was sitting at a table with a mug of ale and his arm around the waist of a barmaid. Surana gave him a hard glare as she crossed the room with her sack of shopping and sat down heavily across from him.

Oghren gave her a shit-eating grin and wordlessly slid the half-empty mug across the table to her. His face was flushed but that could easily be the heat of the large fire in the hearth nearby. She leaned over and studied his eyes; they looked clear and he did not appear to be drunk, yet, at least.

The Nevarrans were an odd bunch, on the whole, but she wasn't going to complain about anyone's cooking at this point. She just hoped her Grey Warden armor and the staff on her back, not to mention the axe Oghren carried, would make the small groups of Vints she'd started seeing on the road think twice about bothering them. They had not passed into Tevinter, but they were close to the border and it made her uncomfortable.

She looked into the mug, her lip curling in distaste at the dark brew inside. She drank it, more to get rid of it than out of any sort of thirst, pulling a face at the unpleasing bitterness.

 

* * *

 

“Er, they only had the one room left, 'm'fraid.”

Oghren shifted on his feet, looking uncharacteristically nervous. The memory of Alistair rose almost violently, superimposing itself over the sight of her companion. She closed her eyes and shook her head jerkily, dispelling the unwanted image.

“It's fine, it's not like we haven't shared a bed before,” she said, then immediately cringed, suddenly aware of the possible implications of that statement. She hated it when she tripped over double entendre and insinuation and tried to avoid it, even if most of Oghren's sense of humor depended upon it.

Normally such a statement would at least earn her an appropriately suggestive (if empty) jest in reply, but Oghren said nothing. She hated the tenseness that now lay between them; she wanted her friend back. She wanted to be able to joke off-handedly and not have to think about it. She also wanted to be back at Vigil's Keep, which wasn't exactly home, but was the closest thing to it she had left, and for the false Calling to have been nothing but a Fade nightmare that could be forgotten upon waking.

Surana sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed, which would be cramped for the two of them, despite their smaller size compared to the humans it was made for, and unlaced her boots without haste. She could see Oghren's feet as he shuffled a bit in front of her.

“Listen, I don't mind sleepin' on the floor if--”

Surana sat up, catching his gaze directly and she refused to blink first, this time. “No, you're not sleeping on the bloody floor. This is the first real bed either of us have seen in _weeks_.”

Oghren crossed his arms and glanced around the room, dithering a bit before turning back to her. “Listen, darlin', what happened the other night, er...” He'd started confidently but apparently had lost his nerve.

Surana rubbed at a spot between her eyes, hoping the tightness there would not bloom into a full headache. “Oghren, I know I shouldn't have tried to kiss you out of the blue like that, and I'm sorry I did, alright? It won't happen again.”

Oghren turned and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, close but not quite touching. “I'm not mad at you, darlin', I'm just... what are you after, exactly? I mean, yer not the first woman to want a tumble with ol' Oghren but... I just never thought you were the sort to, er...”

“To 'er' what, Oghren? You aren't unaware of what Alistair and I got up to during the Blight.”

Oghren laughed at that, a full-bellied chuckle that was the first real laugh she'd heard from him in ages. She was surprised at the sensation of warmth it suddenly gave her. He tilted his head, looking at her with that impish half-grin of his that always managed to make him look suggestive and dirty before he even said anything. “Yeah, every blighter in the camp knew what you an' Alistair were up to. Did he always giggle like that? Sounded like a girl half the time, took me a while to figure out it weren't _you_ makin' that noise.”

Surana smiled despite herself at the memory. “Generally, yea. But you're missing my point – I'm not some innocent child.”

Oghren's grin evaporated and he stared at his boots where they dangled just above the floorboards. “Seems to me you were pretty well in love with that idiot, at least 'til the damn fool broke yer heart.”

“I guess I was. Sort of like you were in love with Branka and Felsi, come to think of it.”

Oghren made a slight choking noise, and turned away from her. “Nah, not really. I only married Branka cos my family arranged it. She was crazier than nug shit and Felsi...”

Surana rolled her eyes. “You're a real shitty liar, Oghren.”

 

* * *

 

They weren't in love, she wouldn't call it that. She doubted he would, either. Those days were in the past for both of them, as out of reach as the sky itself.

They may never make it back to Vigil's Keep. The false Calling had suddenly disappeared, evaporating as quickly as it had appeared, but they were too close to Weisshaupt to just turn back. If nothing else, she still wanted answers, still wanted to know why it had happened, and if it would happen again.

But tonight, she wasn't thinking about that. She and Oghren were tangled up in the sheets of the bed they'd purchased the use of for the night, sweat cooling on their bare skin. It had to be nearing dawn at this point. She hadn't gotten as much sleep as she'd earlier hoped for, but she didn't really give a damn.

Oghren snored lightly where he'd dozed off, halfway draped over her with his cheek pressed against her, his beard surprisingly soft against the skin between her breasts. He was heavier than he looked, she thought. She wasn't in love with him, and they both knew it. But she did love him, and thought, maybe, he loved her also, in some fashion. It wasn't anything like what she'd had with Alistair, but she didn't want what she'd had with Alistair again, anyway. Maybe first loves were always like that, she thought – a soft, pleasant night's dream fated to fade away like morning dew in the light of day.

The Calling was, for the moment, dormant again, but the Taint still thrummed in their veins, ever showing itself in unsettling dreams and strange appetites, the shadow cast over every Grey Warden. They would pack up again and return to the road at daybreak, only an hour or two away, by her reckoning. If there was a way to cure the Calling for good, to spare every Grey Warden that long last lonesome walk into the dark, it was worth seeking.

Surana ran her fingers through Oghren's hair. Nothing had turned out like the fairy stories she'd grown up on, there was no Prince Charming coming to save her anymore, but, she hoped at least, she would never have to walk alone again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This should go without saying, but unlike elfroot & Fade magic, alcohol and substance addiction are sadly quite real. Attempting to quit an addiction "cold turkey" can have serious (and occasionally life-threatening) real-world medical consequences and I would strongly urge anyone struggling with this illness to seek out professional help.


End file.
